The Trouble with Greg
by Elberess
Summary: What's the worst trouble could Greg could get into, wokring late in his Lab? (Rating could get higher in later chapters)
1. In a Dark Dark Lab

"One tiny boiling tube... well, not that tiny..." Greg Sanders whispered eerily   
  
to himself as he spun slowly around on his chair," What secrets could you   
  
possibly hold?" He scrutinized the glassy surface, grimacing as he wiped a mark   
  
from it, before continuing in mystic revelations (and revolutions).  
  
"Ah, you will not talk, mysterious carbon compound?" Greg glided over to a   
  
bunsen burner on the far side of his lab, "I think I might be able to change your mind   
  
about that. They all change their minds... hahahahahaHAHAHAHA!" With as much   
  
finesse as he could muster, the sandy-haired labtech let the tube slip through   
  
his fingers. It splashed into a conveniently waiting beaker of boiling water, sending   
  
drops of steaming liquid onto his hands.  
  
"Aaaah! You are a fool Mr Compound, if you think your water is any match for   
  
my," he flourished his hands, "Completely safe latex-substitute gloves!"   
  
The boiling-tube sat nonchalantly in the 98 degrees celsius water.  
  
Greg narrowed his dark eyes and leaned in towards the apparatus, "Speak!"  
  
There was not a single noise in the lab, not surprising, seeing as it was around   
  
2a.m.  
  
"No?" Greg grabbed some tongs and made exagerrated jabbing movements near to   
  
the tube,"Aaaah," he mimicked.  
  
"AAAAaaaaaah!" The sound of Greg's mock-scream travelled down the hall to another  
  
lab...   
  
Catherine dropped her elaborately-constructed reconstruction of something very   
  
elaborate and raced out into the Office Corridor before she regained her senses.   
  
Carefully, she removed her gun from its holster (she always armed herself when   
  
she worked nights). There were no lights on in any of the labs, just a distant   
  
flicker in Greg-land.  
  
"Greg?" Catherine hissed foolishly, "Are you there?" There was a whiff of   
  
smoke.  
  
The frightened CSI carefully searched for an alarm button to summon the   
  
police. "Heck," she thought, "I *am* the police!" But the call was too strong,   
  
those newly installed buttons were just so important-looking... so forbidden.  
  
Greg examined the mess of crushed glass on the floor, testing it with a furitive   
  
step of his foot.   
  
*crunch* He made a mental note to never pretend to stab a boiling tube again.  
  
"Dammit... once you were a man, now..." he furrowed his brow and then   
  
swivelled towards his microscope.  
  
*smash*  
  
"What now?" his action had upset the beaker, the one he'd filled with water,   
  
and now it glinted smarmily on the floor, "Sort of like Nick will when Grissom   
  
finds out about this", he thought to himself gloomily.  
  
*CRUNCHSMASH*  
  
"Not agai..." Greg froze, one hand in midair. He hadn't touched anything this   
  
time. Now footsteps were racing towards him, and urgent voices. His mind was   
  
flurry of confusion, he sat dumbly on the swivel-chair, waiting for the end.   
  
Well, waiting for whatever it was he was waiting for. "Please... god... I can   
  
be a theologist and a scientist, can't I? Please make this not the mafia." God   
  
could have granted that wish, for at the same moment a SWAT team burst halfway   
  
through the LAb doorway, illuminating a startled face in torchlight.  
  
"Hi... guys..." 


	2. The Three Choices

Note: This updated version of Chapter 2 *should* display lines of speech properly, sorry   
  
About the confusion of last time!  
  
"I'm telling you, Gris, it was just a very unfortunate chain of events," Greg sat facing his   
  
supervisor, who was regarding him with a critical air, "Anyway, Catherine shouldn't have   
  
pressed that button, just becau-" he was silenced with a glare.  
  
"That's transference of blame, Greg, don't act like a suspect!" Grissom sighed with   
  
exasperation and stated calmly that Catherine had done nothing wrong in summoning help,   
  
considering the circumstances.  
  
Greg stuttered, "Oh, I can explain them, the uh, circumstances, I was just having some..."  
  
"Fun?"  
  
A man in a hard hat intruded, looking puzzled, he held a hammer in one hand.   
  
Grissom politely offered, "The broken *window* is at the end of the hall; the broken *doors*   
  
are located at the front of the building and the entrance to one of the main labs; the   
  
*broken*..."  
  
The man wandered out again, looking even more confused.  
  
"...and don't forget to close the door."   
  
Like lightning, Greg shot out of his seat and slammed shut the offending element. He flashed   
  
a *please forgive me* smile at Grissom. The interrogator bounced it back with a disturbing   
  
grin.  
  
"Come on, Gris, cut me some slack! I didn't *mean* to do anything wrong, I was just goofing."  
  
Running a hand through his peppery-grey hair, the head CSI began to drum his fingers on the   
  
desk. It was very disconcerting.  
  
"Firstly, Greg, since when have you been a non-consequentiality?" He ignored the lost look   
  
that this comment received," And secondly, we do not GOOF in labs. Sure, science can be   
  
fun, but try to curb your enthusiasm in the future."  
  
"Of course, sure, I will bye..." Greg made to leave.  
  
"Down."  
  
Grissom lifted an innocent looking pile of papers from his desk and began to lecture Greg.  
  
"... I'd like to think that maybe this is your reaction to being cooped up..."  
  
*Suddenly the preserved mushrooms on a nearby shelf started to look quite entertaining.*  
  
"...That lack of caution could jeopardise evidence..."  
  
*Could I name all of these in my head? They are rare-looking...*  
  
"...replacement, but I would like to keep you on..."  
  
*Now that was a strange one, blue with black specks, what was it?*  
  
"...up to you Greg, so what do you want to do?"  
  
*It wasn't a coprinus because of the broken stalk.*  
  
"GREG!?!"   
  
"Aaaah! Russula Virescens, sir."   
  
"Greg, were you listening to me? You better have been."  
  
"Oh no," Greg thought, "He's got so mad with me that his voice has looped back from livid to   
  
calm. He shook his head.  
  
"Get out."   
  
"But -"  
  
"Out."  
  
"But-"  
  
"I'll get Catherine to speak to you."  
  
"But-"  
  
And then there was silence, as Grissom turned round and began to attend to his spiders.  
  
Greg managed to walk all the way to the drinks machine before he cracked.  
  
"Uh, can I get past? Once you've finished thumping your head, of course." It was Catherine,   
  
armed with a quarter and a slightly wary look.  
  
"No, I mean, yes, wait…"   
  
"If this is about the alarm, Greg, then I'm not going to step down. I had every right to press it."  
  
"Yes, and Gris agrees. But I need to ask you about a question."  
  
"Oh." Catherine swiftly deposited her money and punched a button. The noise of the can   
  
thumping off of the bottom of the machine hung in the air like the precursor to an avalanche.  
  
"I didn't listen when Grissom told be about something, some question, do you have any idea   
  
what it could possibly be?"  
  
"If you were my son…" various muscles twitched about Catherine's person, the can of Diet   
  
Coke in her hand was looking like it needed an excuse to run away and Greg walked a couple   
  
of steps backwards.  
  
"I'll go ask someone else, Cath, if you're busy."   
  
Catherine sighed and suddenly looked sympathetic, "Greg, you have three options."  
  
"Regarding what?" Greg raised his hands in desperation, "What?"  
  
"If you'll let me finish. You can either transfer, agree to work with a… lab supervisor, or,   
  
leave."  
  
The disheartened lab-tech tried to read from Catherine's expression, but he gleaned nothing,   
  
"Who decided to do this to me?" Greg slid down the wall like he'd been flung at it, his head in   
  
his hands.  
  
"Mainly the SWAT Team leader."  
  
Note from author:   
  
Heya, I'm not really sure where to go from here. Any suggestions? 


	3. The Old Grey Neigh

Note From Author: Okaaay, I've decided to make it that Greg decided to "try-out" being a CSI (to   
  
keep my options open!).   
  
Enjoy the fic. Oh, and by the way, in the first chapter Greg wasn't performing a test, he was just   
  
messing about ;)  
  
"Oh, sweet locker room! Oh, sweet locker! Oh.. eww... when was the last time I wore *these*   
  
shoes?"  
  
Sara watched bemusedly as Greg rifled through the contents of his locker, "Happy, Greg?" She   
  
asked, rhetorically, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Never been feeling *finer*!" He replied, cramming his labcoat into a large garbage bag.  
  
*It was a bright, cool morning in Las Vegas. The birds were singing merrily in the trees; people   
  
were hatching murderous plots all over the city.   
  
But, best of all, Greg was going to be working on a case. Not just working on a case, actually   
  
*working* on it.   
  
Not just annoying Nick as an afterthought, actually *annoying* him as a partner. He had donned   
  
the brightest,  
  
happiest shirt he had been able to find and he'd even spiked up his hair the *other* way. He was   
  
so elated that   
  
he hadn't even cared when Catherine had asked him if he had "stolen that blood-soaked shirt   
  
from a vic".   
  
He was so happy that he had bought her a soda, and he had bought Gris a soda, he had even   
  
bought Nick a soda...*  
  
"I hate Root Beer," Nick stated maliciously, and then thought to himself,"I hate you *too* Greg."  
  
Greg smiled at him.  
  
This disconcerted Nick slightly, he thought to himself,"Time to attack from another angle,"  
  
and he absent-mindedly sipped the root beer.  
  
Greg seemed to be waiting for something,"Nick?"  
  
Slowly and deliberately, the Texan CSI lowered his drink to the table and then folded his muscled   
  
arms,"Yes?"  
  
"Aren't we going to go out to the Crime Scene, Nick?"  
  
"Greg, Greg," Nick tutted,"You need to be briefed first. How can you lab-rats ever learn if-"  
  
" -I have been briefed, we're going to a Music School. Someone got murdered in a Practice   
  
Room,  
  
someone playing the Clarinet."  
  
Somewhere, in Nick's hardy, Texan stomach, an ulcer was born.  
  
*Late the previous night*  
  
- Cue duck-like musical noises -  
  
A fat, balding man is standing playing the clarinet.   
  
He pauses suddenly and wipes the sweat from his shiny head, the resulting squeaky noise is   
  
horrific.   
  
-Close up of the man's fingers -  
  
He is obviously a competent player, very (how on earth can I say this without sounding weird?)   
  
fast with his fingers.   
  
-A shadow passes over the man's hands-  
  
He pauses, uttering the famous last-words of so many people.  
  
"Who's there?"  
  
*WHUMP*  
  
*Back to the present...*  
  
"Oh... the old grey neigh, she ain't what she use to be... ain't what she -"  
  
"GREG."  
  
"Yes, Nick?"  
  
"Don't sing."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's annoying."  
  
"Why?" Greg stood up, a swab of saliva in one hand.   
  
In the small, cell-like room, there was barely room for half-a-dozen people at the most. Nick   
  
counted for two, and there was a cop in one corner, so it was quite crowded.  
  
The "vic" had been removed after primary processing and the only remaining objects were: two   
  
music stands; some sheets of music; an empty bottle of "valve oil" and a flute.  
  
Of course there were many pieces of evidence which were invisible to the naked eye, and some   
  
weird stains on the carpet.  
  
"What do you mean, why?" Nick cut a very comical figure, a miniature dusting implement in one   
  
hand, like a maid on steroids.  
  
"I mean, why?" Greg was studying the door-frame.  
  
"You just shouldn't sing. It's a "rule" Greg. We CSIs have rules." Nick turned away from his   
  
partner, glowing with pride at his closing comment.   
  
He kneeled down to take a sample of one of the stains on the floor.  
  
"Hahahaha."  
  
Nick stood up and swivelled round like a piece of well-oiled machinery, or (as Greg thought) a   
  
snake, "What are you laughing at, Greg?"  
  
"Well, you've just infringed upon a very important rule."  
  
Nick's blood ran colder than usual, he raised both hands, he wasn't wearing gloves.  
  
"Better make sure we don't pull your file up on AFIS! Hahahaha."   
  
The temperature in the room increased by a few degrees.   
  
"Oh... the old grey -"  
  
"Greg."  
  
"-neigh she ain't what-"  
  
"GREG."  
  
"-she used to be, she-"  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because..." Nick flexed his fingers,"Because I'm trying to hear the evidence!"  
  
Greg's eyes looked like marbles, "Ooookaaay..." He didn't understand the comment, but, he   
  
dared to think, it almost sounded like something Grissom would say.  
  
As they finally left the building, Nick felt surprised that he'd survived the few hours he'd had to   
  
spend in an enclosed space with Greg.  
  
Greg, however, was still listening out for evidence. 


End file.
